


Auto-Pilot

by sawbones



Series: Auto-Pilot [1]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Even More Touch-Starved Pequod, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Touch-Starved Snake, unrequited love (or is it?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 17:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13956786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sawbones/pseuds/sawbones
Summary: Pequod brings Snake home after a particularly long mission in Afghanistan, but something's wrong and he doesn't know how to ask about it.





	Auto-Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> A scribble to declutter my brain in between commissions bc I get overly attached to background characters and P is cute. Kind of canon-divergent, I suppose, since in this Pequod is implied to be the same pilot all the way through.

They’d been flying over the open ocean for hours already; even with the top-range mods that pushed the chopper’s top speed far beyond what it should have been, there were times when Pequod understood what it really meant when old sailors spoke of chasing the horizon. The weather conditions were damn near perfect for flying, clear with just enough cloud to keep the sun from getting in his eyes. No turbulence, no crosswinds - no winds at all really, which was lucky at that time of year - just hundreds and hundreds of miles of deep blue ocean. Still, he didn’t take his hands off the stick or his eyes off the instruments for a minute, even if he could have been cruising on auto-pilot half of the way back to base.

There was no sound but the rush of the wind catching on the door’s seam, the frantic throb of the rotors, and the tinny threads of some pop song the Boss was playing on his idroid almost lost beneath it all. Pequod recognised it, but only as one the Boss liked to listen to now and again; he might have been able to hum along if he focused, but he couldn’t even guess who sang it.

It had been playing it on repeat all the way from Afghanistan.

Pequod knew the Boss well enough to know when something was bothering him (more than usual), and that was a sure-fire sign. He was aware he’d been injured - the left side of his sneaking suit slick and shiny as he climbed aboard, a bloody palm-print left on the door frame - but it wasn’t serious enough that he couldn’t patch himself up. From the radio link with the base commanders, something which he had been tagged in on since the Sehlanthropus incident for both his own safety and the Boss’, the mission had been a success. So what else had happened between dropping him off days ago and picking him back up?

Pequod pressed his tongue against his teeth and thought very carefully about whether he’d be crossing a line if he asked what was wrong. The Boss, a man of few words, tended to work on a need-to-know basis - if Pequod didn’t know already, then he probably didn’t need to. It didn’t stop him from worrying, though. He didn’t consider them to be _close_ , exactly, but Pequod had the privilege of being the person the Boss spent the most time with in this world, even if it was just in the long, yawning hours of flight between motherbase and wherever he needed to be. A technicality, but one he kept in his pocket, cherished and well-petted.

Afterall, _he_ was the one who went with the Boss on every single mission, while even the commanders observed from afar; just like them, if Snake was awake, then so was he - and Snake never seemed to sleep. He was the one who had reached deep down into the shit and pulled the Boss out every single time, against rockets and mini-guns and giant goddamn _robots_. He was the one who would live and almost certainly die behind the controls of his chopper, on his way to him, for him, maybe even with him.

There wasn’t a dog among them that wouldn’t do anything for the Boss, and Pequod was no different. He wondered if the man himself knew that but only long enough to scold himself for being dense - of course the Boss knew. That was the world he was building, that was the legacy that stretched out for decades on either side of him, woven through the devotion of a hundred thousand men, to him and to each other.

A sound behind him roused him from his unusual lapse in concentration, and he threw a glance over his shoulder, blinking. The Boss had moved from his usual back bench to the canvas seats at the side, diagonally behind Pequod. It looked as though he’d shed most of his equipment, down to just his fatigues and boots - not unusual in its own right, but still something he couldn’t help but notice. He checked his instruments again, made nervous by the sudden proximity. The music rolled on, a little louder now it was closer to his ear.

He could make out some of the lyrics now, sad despite the upbeat rhythm: _dancing with tears in my eyes_. He wasn’t sure the Boss had ever danced, or cried, nevermind both. You needed to be human for that.

“You okay, Boss?” Pequod risked asking, sparing him another glance. Snake was working his earpiece free, unsticking his throat-mic like he was making himself comfortable. He tucked both in his breast pocket, a simple gesture that had Pequod’s heart jumping; he could almost hear Miller’s grunt of irritation back at motherbase - he loathed to be cut off from contact with the Boss for even a second, not until their chopper had eyes on the base itself. They were still a long way from home, two hours at least.

The Boss gave a non-commital grunt as he pulled out his phantom cigar; he sat with his forearms resting on his knees as he smoked, threads of vapour caught between his teeth. Assuming that was all he was going to get, Pequod readjusted his grip in the stick and tried to gather his focus again in spite of the strange atmosphere in the helicopter.

“Pequod. You ever get… lonely up here?”

Ah. There it was.

“Probably about as lonely as you get down there, Boss,” he said with a slight bob of his head, “I’m sure D-Dog helps, though.”

“Hrm. You want a dog for the chopper?”

Pequod couldn’t help but laugh at that, at how earnest the Boss sounded, “Dogs need somewhere to stretch their legs, Boss. Wouldn’t be fair to keep one cooped up in a tin can like this just to keep me company. Besides, you know how it is when you’re on the job - you don’t let your mind wander. When I’m watching your back, Boss, it’s the only thing I’m thinking about.”

The grunt this time was amused, the closest thing most people got to hearing the Boss laugh, “That’s good to know.”

Pequod smiled to empty ocean in front of him. He spent all of his days and most of nights in his helicopter, whether out on missions or on standby at motherbase; an animal companion might have been nice, especially since he rarely got to socialise with the rest of the Diamond Dogs. Still, it just wasn’t feasible. He never got boots on the ground enough to let it run free, and that was just no life for a dog.

“This thing got an auto-pilot?” the Boss asked, and Pequod could smell that he was smoking again.

“Configured it myself,” Pequod said in the affirmative, though he took pride in the fact they’d never had a use for it. His bird was studded with all the bells and whistles R&D could throw at it, and while he was grateful, he preferred to rely on his own skills when he could.

“Hrm,” he said, then paused, “Turn it on. Come here.”

“Boss?”

Another pause, just enough to bring the tension back.

“Just for a sec.”

Pequod wet his lips, a nervous habit. He brought the helicopter up a little higher than they had to, putting more distance between them and the ocean if something did go wrong; he then enabled the auto-pilot, the stick shuddering in his grip as it minutely fought his control. He waited until he was sure all the instruments were reading well before he unclipped his helmet and rolled it onto the passenger’s seat. His hands weren’t shaking - they never did - but he felt like they should be.

Snake was waiting for him, watching with his one wary, weary eye. He smiled as Pequod wormed between the cockpit seats, half-stooped to avoid knocking his head even though he wasn’t _that_ tall; it was more like a quirk at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t matter. He took a final drag on his cigar before it disappeared back into some hidden pocket, and he beckoned him closer still with a twist of his red hand.

Pequod didn’t know what to do but obey. Everything seemed louder without his helmet: the reassuring throb of the rotors, the rush of the wind outside, the looping beat of the song - but it all faded into the background when the Boss put his hands on his hips and pulled him to stand between his spread thighs. He held him there for a moment, thumbs rubbing circles at his waist before he reached up and unzipped his jacket, unbuttoned the shirt below it with the same sort of certainty he did everything in life.

Pequod didn’t feel the same sort of confidence. He didn’t moved to stop the Boss, but he didn’t encourage him either; he didn’t know what the plan was, or what the hell was even going on. Snake had never shown any kind of special interest in him before, let alone _this_. Pequod shivered. The metal hand was much warmer than he thought it would be, almost as warm as the flesh one. That was much easier to focus on, and the way it dragged across his chest like a lover’s might.

“Can you feel that?” the Boss asked, voice low and raspy enough that Pequod almost missed it. Could he feel what - his hand? He could hardly miss it, either of them. He nodded.

“I feel you,” he said. Chist, how long had it been since someone had touched him, skin to skin? He wanted to cry and he didn’t really know why, not when the Boss leant forward and pressed his face to his sternum. Maybe the horn scared him more than he thought; maybe it was nothing at all. He didn’t know where to put his hands so he carded his fingers through his hair, too scared to embrace him, not sure he could wrap his arms around a legend of that size anyway.

He was stiff when the Boss coaxed him to sit down, he couldn’t relax into it no matter how hard he tried. He desperately wanted to be kissed but he wouldn’t be able to handle it if they did. The closest he got was when his mouth brushed beard as they laid down, sharing breath and what little space there was on the canvas bench. Pequod had to lie half on-top of the Boss just to stop from rolling off entirely, an arm slung across his chest, a leg pushed between strong thighs.

It wasn’t comfortable by any means, not with the metal seat frame digging into his hip, or the fight or flight response making his jaw ache, or angle his neck was force into as the Boss pulled him closer - but he’d rather chew his own arm off than move. With a hand made clumsy by proximity, he untucked the Boss’s shirt from his belt and let his own hand creep inside, fingers running over the scars on his stomach, mapping them without seeing them.

Would he ever see them? Like this, he meant, not in combat or on a medic’s stretcher somewhere in between a bed and the battlefield. It was an honour and a horror to even get this far, and Pequod wanted to be cherished and ravished and pulled all the way apart. The Boss grunted again, but he wasn’t sure if it was because he’d found his wound or not. His hand stilled, lost somewhere over his heart.

“You okay, Boss?” he asked again. The arm around his waist tightened.

“Give me a minute and I might be,” the Boss said from somewhere near his hairline. Pequod nodded. He would give him more than a minute; he would give him an entire lifetime.


End file.
